


Dark Tales

by Bool_Ji



Category: Dark Souls
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gen, Lore Speculation, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-03 23:33:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2892188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bool_Ji/pseuds/Bool_Ji
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Might as well dump my DkS drabbles in one handy location. Excuse the awful pun.</p><p>In this episode: Ornstein can't talk to girls. Artorias gives him a hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Old Dragonslayer Lore

**Author's Note:**

> These are stories I feel don't stand up on their own, and so will join this collection. There will be more to come, most likely, of various lengths and genres. I hope you enjoy!

Starbound spirits  
Rising in mind out of time  
Free from the bonds around us  
Captives in waking mankind

—[Turn This Island Earth](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cJ6OZqx2xlk), Steve Hackett

\- - -

Can you imagine being bound for a thousand years? Can you comprehend complete immobilization, mummified like an insect in a spider’s web? Can you survive time so deep its length defies understanding, silence so profound your beating heart is deafening, Darkness so total even the memory of light fades into shadow?

You don’t have a choice. You are immortal, but part of you died. Crushed out of you, and leaking onto a marble floor you can barely picture in your thoughts.

You are aware, in your capture, that something is filling that gap. At times you believe it is your mind approaching an unseen brink, wandering like an enfeebled grandfather toward certain disaster, but occasionally you catch a glimpse of mottled flesh and white feathers and you feel that something _move beneath your skin_. It brings a different sort of pain than the threat of full-blown madness. It brings an agony that drives fire through your nerves, unbearable, writhing plasma, and you would scream, if your lips were not mired in this Dark.

All that keeps you sane is the object your fingertips can just barely brush. You cannot see it, but you know what it is. There are so many memories tied to it — where you have been, what you have done. _Who you are_. You are not alone, and so you bide your time. 

You wait for an eternity.

When next it comes, you are ready. The Dark lets up just a tiny bit when it approaches. You open your eyes. This parody of the divine, with its long wings and four arms, has harbored such a fascination with you. You are far better prey than whoever else has shared your fate, and so it has savored your torment for countless years. It lifts a fetid hand to your face, and you feel that magma building in your brain.

Before your thoughts go up in smoke, you reach a little farther into the Dark, grasp your spear, and unleash the last of your faith, your duty, your honor, and your _self_ , tempered with _centuries’_ worth of fury.

And you _miss_.

The thunderbolt plows through the murk and detonates overhead — all these years, you had no idea this place had a _ceiling_ — and a loud roar fills the chasm. Rock gives way before lightning, and a dense column of frigid water pours in from above. The winged demon retreats into blackness as the cavern quickly fills.

You’ve traded one prison for another. At least you can finally move, muscles weak and aching after so much time immobile. You have the presence of mind to hold your breath and hang onto your spear as the current drags you along, a tumbling leaf in raging rapids.

Your velocity slows. Your feet find the ground. Your lungs burn, not with a parasitic flame, but with the demand for survival. You thrash against the water, but all you achieve are arcs of bubbles. You’re too heavy.

—you’re wearing _armor_. That isn’t your _skin_ , no matter how often you’ve thought of it as such or how long you’ve been trapped in it. It’s weighing you down, down close to the deep. Frenzied with escape and the need for air, your fingers pry at clasps, but it’s not enough. They’ve long rusted into impenetrable stones. You dig at them again and again, until blood surges around you, except it isn’t blood, it’s Dark. That is Dark running through your digits, and you would be sick if it wasn’t breaking through the catches and chains and tearing your armor off.

As your accoutrements fall away, the cold water on your bare flesh provides shock after shock. It’s time to sink or swim.

You kick off against the bottom, flailing against the pressure, lungs begging for respite, body cramping, mind catching glimpses of golden palaces and silver knights in the shimmering water—

—it breaks over your head and you are free.

Gasping for breath, you cling to the first solid mass you can find, and when you have the strength, you claw out of the ocean. All you can do for a long time is lay on your side, sputter salt out of your throat, and collect yourself. Shivering, degenerate…but alive.

There seems to be a city here — or what’s left of it. Most of it has been claimed by the sea. You yourself are atop what may have been a piece of walkway at some point. You don’t want to think about where to go from here. Not yet, at least. You have not returned from the dead to surrender…but a rest is not out of the question.

You roll onto your back. Sunset washes across your skin. It’s real, pure sunlight, not an illusion. You drink in its lingering warmth like wine, lifting a hand to its heat.

Jet black runs through your veins.

You quickly drop your hand.

Releasing a pained breath, you turn your gaze to the sky. It’s overcast, but between the clouds night is coming on strong. The stars are in different patterns than you remember. The world has changed.

And so have you.

\- - -

Your next handful of days ebb and flow like the tide. Your vision, waterlogged, seaweed growing in your eyes, see only smears of form and color and blurs of twilight. At times you burn, at times you freeze. In the brief moments of lucidity that come to you, you think to yourself _no one said returning from the grave would be easy_.

Shadow, gleam, fire, murk. Sometimes you find yourself spluttering, wheezing as your lungs expel trench mud onto the floor. There is something heavy within you, and your body wants to be rid of it.

"No, we must continue to try," someone says, "Please, sir, it is but mild broth. If you cannot keep it down…I cannot assure your survival."

You drift away into the flood as flat wood presses to your lips.

Your days are like the tide, and so with time you float back to shore. Dazed, half-drowned, your limbs as dense as stones, for a time you can only lie motionless against rough sand — cloth? — shut your eyes, and grasp for handholds as life slowly finds you once again.

\- - -

When you open your eyes to clear sight for the first time, it comes as such a shock your breath catches in your throat. You’re in a small room, lying on your stomach in a small cot, you’re clad in a tunic and trousers that are too small and you’re not alone.

There are humans watching you.

The one nearest you, sitting on a small chair, has a thick beard and mustache and kind, blue eyes. Beside him kneels a female knight holding a bowl of soup. Standing bunched by the doorway are several others: warriors, clerics, pyromancers. All but the furry fellow stare at you with unabashed fear, like deer catching sight of the hunter’s bow.

You try to rise, but merely lifting onto your elbows requires gargantuan effort. Your arms have but the scantest muscle to them, atrophied to near uselessness. Weak. Pathetic. You look at the crowd, and horror flashes through you like

_~~lightning~~_.

You remember what happened the last time you saw a human.

"Hail, sir," the bearded man says gently, leaning forward, "How do you feel?"

You don’t trust your voice. Encrusted as you were, you had your mouth, but could not scream. After a thousand years’ imprisonment, you are unsure what will emerge from you, but the eyes digging holes into you spurn you into sound. They stare at you like an animal, but you show them you are no beast.

"Who art thou?"

Some of them flinch in surprise. It does you good to know your voice, hoarse, grinding growl it is, still strikes fear in the hearts of men.

The bearded knight is unaffected. “I am Targray of the Blue Sentinels. Be at ease. You are safe here.”

Where is here? _When_ is here? So many questions come to you it makes the room spin. It seems your thoughts are still wet around the edges.

Targray sees the pain on your face. “Rest now. We mean you no harm, good sir. Sleep. Regain your strength. You have a long journey ahead of you.”

You have the presence of mind to think about flashing him a rude gesture, and that is the final straw for your overtaxed brain. You’re unconscious before you topple back against the pillow.

\- - -

It takes weeks for you to adjust to life on land.

The first order is to recover your strength. Bag of bones you are, you work your muscles and strive toward simple goals. Sitting up. Gaining your feet. Walking. The greatest impediment toward progress is your own mind. You feel like a child. A _human_ child. The notion turns your stomach with disgust, fills your ears with noise, and forces you to lie down lest you collapse. Injuring yourself is the last thing you need, and so you chase your thoughts until they obey and try again.

The Sentinels offer to help you, and you refuse them all. All except Targray. He did not stare at you like a caged monster.

Targray provides you information as well as a sturdy shoulder to lean on. He feeds you a little at a time, for your mind is as unsteady as your legs, but soon your appetite, mental _and_ physical, returns. He takes meals with you, regaling you with tales. This place is called Heide, and it was once a complex of temples before the sea consumed it. The kingdom is called Drangleic.

"Many nations have risen and fallen on these lands," Targray says, picking at his plate, "The reasons why have been lost to antiquity. It is a problem with the very earth, perhaps."

You only half-listen. You’re preoccupied with dinner. Fresh fish, a rare delicacy in a time gone by, is common now, and bless the Sentinels, they have wine. You eat as much as two men. More food, more energy, the quicker you can attain your past stature.

"In mention of antiquity…your dialect is strange to us. Where are you from?"

You pause rubbing a slice of bread in a puddle of fat. He does this on occasion. He spins you stories and expects some in return. At first recollection made you ill, but your strength grows daily. Your memories are intact, though there are many you would like to forget. What is the harm in sharing a yarn or two? After all, the man literally got you back on your feet.

_Human_ , blares a warning in your head.

Targray has been hospitable so far, but you don’t know how he will react to your true nature. He could try to harness you, enslave you, and though you have regained much, the Sentinels en masse would have no trouble overpowering you. You were trapped once. You will not be shackled again.

You scowl at your supper, shake your head. “Mine mind is fog and mist,” you growl, “Say no more. I tire of thy words.”

Targray folds his hands in his lap. When you are finished eating, a knight enters to remove your dishes. As you stand, you notice in your anger you bent the arm of your chair.

The chair is made of iron.

You feel a bit better.

\- - -

You have free roam of Heide, and you walk to clear your thoughts. Old Hollow knights stand guard over their posts, and while their swords and hammers are formidable, they leave you alone. Perhaps you remind some small part of their rotten brains of a past commander. You give a slight nod to one of them, and it returns the gesture.

You have regained your presence. 

Among other things.

When you arrive at the cathedral, your heart almost stops. The gathered Sentinels freeze in their tracks, staring at you. Since your reawakening, they have gotten used to you, but this is different. They look guilty, like children caught stealing sweets.

Your armor, propped on a stand, looms deathly over them, and your spear leans against it.

Emotion floods over you as you approach your shed skin. That once brilliant steel now reflects only shadow. Rust has eaten holes, barnacles form great slashes of scar tissue, its plume is fish-nibbled and damp. Many of the fastenings that hold it together are broken. Your spear is in similar condition: marred, chipped, discolored. Fossilized.

"I take it these are yours," Targray says, making himself known, "It was no small feat retrieving them. Few among us can swim."

The urge to _own_ overtakes you. You strip off your shirt. “Garb me,” you bark.

There’s slight hesitation before the Sentinels heed your order. The doublet they produce is too small — _everything_ is too small, these idiot humans do nothing but fill you with fury — and your damaged armor fits poorly. When the helm slides onto your head, your nose is _assaulted_ with the stench of the sea. Your eyes and throat burn with the reek of it. It hangs on you awkwardly, and every movement is a struggle. Metal creaks and groans as you flex your muscles.

You grasp your spear, and nothing matters anymore. For the first time in months, you feel complete.

Instinct rushes back to you. The weapon’s weight in your hands reignites memories of combat. You swing the spear in wide arcs, delighting in the sharp blur, the whistle of wind. Rust and muck fly off you as you force your armor to move; it’s like each piece is cleansing itself for you, waking up for you. Triumph sings in your veins, coursing through you like daylight; you feel power booming within you, rich and true and real, and you focus it, sink your hands in it, and draw it to the surface, water breaking into air and—

—that isn’t a bolt of gold, that is black, ichorous smoke—

—that is _**Dark**._

You drop your spear, and when it hits the floor it detonates a shock-wave of black magic that knocks you off your feet. Blue Sentinels yelp and dive for cover. Targray stands his ground and takes shelter behind his shield.

For a long moment, silence reigns. Staring at the ceiling, you soon feel terrified eyes boring into you. You roll onto your side, pick up your spear, and rise upright. Without a word, you depart the cathedral. Humans are idiots, but you are the biggest fool of them all.

Targray finds you sometime later. You know he’s there even though you gaze at the sunset. Your mind feels numb. You may be strong again, but you have changed. Who you once were has been dead for centuries. You cannot be that man again.

You passed that event horizon a long time ago.

Targray sits a respectful distance away. You realize who he reminds you of. Perhaps the knight has no affiliation with the gods, but he has ears, and he is just as selfless as a bishop clad in rock.

You take a deep breath…and tell him everything.

\- - -

It’s a lot to digest. He struggles with this tidal wave of information for several minutes, deciding where he stands and what the next course of action is. Finally, he speaks.

"You are a god?"

"Yes," you reply.

"Then I can no more command you than the motions of the stars. You could rend the cathedral to ruins if you so wished. Slay every one of my men."

This is all true, so you say nothing.

"If you plan to leave," Targray continues, "Then leave. For what it is worth, you have my blessing."

It’s tempting. In your wanderings, you have glimpsed the highest towers of what appears to be an obsidian castle in the distance. You would like to meet the king of that keep, if only to compare him to lords you once knew. Yet as you ball your hands into fists, your gauntlets squeal with complaint.

"I am ill-prepared for journey," you say, "There is much I have yet to accomplish."

Control. You need better control.

"You are welcome to stay amongst the Sentinels," Targray says, "If you choose to make this place your home, we will consider it an honor to house you. There is a blacksmith in Majula—" _Where_? “—who can repair your armor. Come or go, you are free to do whatever you desire.” He stands, approaches you, and cautiously rests a hand on your shoulder. You allow him. “We knights rely on each other to achieve our goals. Adrift you may be, good sir, but you are not alone.”

He starts back toward the cathedral.

"Targray."

He stops, looks at you. “Yes?”

You continue to watch the sky. The star being swallowed by the sea. “Keep mine name to thyself, for I am worthy of it no longer. To the rest, I am naught but an Old Dragonslayer.”

Targray nods and departs from you, and you are solitary once more.


	2. In Which Ornstein Sees the Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am shipper trash. :'3

“Thou art well. Thou art brave, kind, and bear a heart fit to burst with love. And thy hair looks fine.”

Ornstein scowls, batting away Artorias’ hand. The last thing he needs right now is to be pet like an animal. “Thou art not helping.”

The wolf knight smiles, gently tugs the lapels of Ornstein’s coat straight. “At ease, captain. She is waiting.”

Ornstein takes a deep breath to center himself. He can do this. He can _do_ this. Yet as he steps into the garden, he feels like he is marching to war. And not in the fun way. The way that feels more like a _mountain_ of dragons awaits, claws and teeth and hellfire, and he is armed with his wits and a slice of bread. While naked.

Fear roots him to the lawn. Who is he kidding? He can vanquish manticores and drakes and everything in between, but this? This is beyond him. He turns back toward the castle and catches sight of Artorias. The knight flails his arms, shakes his head, face twisted with frustration. Though he says nothing his sentiment is loud enough for Ornstein to hear. _Go, by damnation; I am_ not _allowing thee to return until you ask a very important question._

Ornstein stifles a groan. Caught between a mental block and a hard head. With no other option available (save for scaling the wall, but he would gut himself before fleeing like an outlaw from his own home), he advances.

She’s waiting in a stone gazebo, hands folded in her lap. In the moonlight her skin radiates a divine glow. Ornstein struggles to find his tongue. “Princess.”

Gwynevere smiles. “Sir Ornstein,” she says, “Please. Sit with me.”

_And so it begins_ , he thinks. Settling beside her on a bench, spine ramrod straight, he recalls the speech he carefully crafted. Rehearsed before a mirror. Eavesdropped upon by his brothers and sister. Scrapped, retooled, morphed into a promise of eternal devotion.

“The stars art splendid tonight.”

He could kick himself.

Gwynevere chuckles, a dainty hand pressed to her lips. “Is that why thou art here? To watch the skies, captain?”

_Yes. I am captivated by the beauty of that great vastness and not the perfection that is you. That is all._ “N-nay.”

He stammered. He never stammers. Gwynevere notices, a slim eyebrow rising. “Then why art thou here?”

Here it is. The moment of truth. There’s a lion in his breast, a brilliant creature of pure energy that wants to be free, to roar to the heavens and earth and all that will hear it its intent to be at her side for the rest of time, but serpents of dark anxiety coil around its limbs, sink their fangs into its flesh — _She is out of thy league_ , they whisper, _Thee? With the princess? Daughter of the god who granted thee thy soul? A fool’s dream. Sleep, mongrel, in wretched peace._

He’s suffocating. It’s so close. It’s right there. And yet — he can’t —

“Sir Ornstein wishes to marry thee.”

Captain and royal turn around. Leaning against a pillar of the gazebo is Artorias, sporting a cheerful grin.

“Is this so, captain?” Gwynevere asks.

The lion is free. As it rips to shreds the dread snakes that dared bind it, Ornstein is flooded with thoughts. How to salvage the situation. How to mop the sweat from his brow. How to murder Artorias with the utmost brutality and get away with the crime. What escapes the maelstrom isn’t quite the fierce bellow he was aiming for, but a mew is better than nothing. “Aye,” he says, “Please.”

Gwynevere smiles, stroking Ornstein’s cheek. “I was waiting for thee to ask.” She leans in and kisses him. Sunshine pours through him.

And as he wraps his arms around her, he realizes at that moment, he could marry Artorias too.


End file.
